


killing time

by bagelgladiator



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Nightmares, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Retired Castiel (Supernatural), Retired Hunter Dean Winchester, human!Cas, mentions of mr cas' lobotomy, only mentioning eileen and sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:00:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29823921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bagelgladiator/pseuds/bagelgladiator
Summary: It's been four years since Dean saved Cas from the Empty and confessed his feelings in return, and in their Vermont lakehouse, the retired couple is now learning how to heal. One morning, Dean gives Cas a haircut.(A character study of Castiel.)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 100





	killing time

Cool, dawn air settled softly on the grass, where droplets of dew reflected the pink light of morning. It was early autumn now, and the Earth was just beginning to dip its toes into the season. Beyond the sightline of the small yard was the home garden, where sweet potatoes and butternut squash grew in wooden planter boxes, next to which arugula spread itself across rich loam. Its green leaves blended in with the not-yet mature tips of carrots and an unruly assortment of cranberry bushes. The sundry group of fruits and vegetables hugged the soil around three cedar beehives that seemed to sprout from the ground. And there, at the far edge of the garden, was the treeline. 

A red leaf fluttered from the wooded area and settled lightly on the sun-washed, weather-beaten back porch. Castiel bent forward slowly, making sure to not knock over the mug of coffee that sat on the arm of the chair. Taking the stem in between two fingers, he sat back and lifted the leaf to his face, rubbing the front of the leaf clean with his thumb. Castiel adjusted his hands to hold the sleeves of his sweater in his palms to starve away the brisk air. 

_Acur rubrum,_ he recalled, native to eastern North America. Red maple. 

He had always been most fond of _Platycerium coronarium,_ which dotted its way across Southeast Asia and the Indonesian Archipelago, and _Sequoia sempervirens_ along the western coast of North America. The staghorn fern and the sequoia, respectively. Castiel preferred the Enochian names more, of course, but he could still hear Dean making an offhand comment once about sequoia trees: “Oh, yeah. The big ones.” 

Castiel smiled to himself. 

How long ago had that been? A case in California, before Jack had been born. 

Castiel’s sense of time was rickety, at best. He would admit that to himself. 

There were things he remembered with absolute, striking precision: the destruction of Sodom, the look on the face of Lot’s wife before her skin crackled and became chalky, that rough, crystalline texture of salt glinting in the light of daybreak; a group of little boys and girls playing catch on the banks of the Yangtze River, the way the ball, wrapped in yak leather, landed smoothly in Castiel’s hands, the laughter and grins of the children encouraging him to throw it back; a seedling buried in the shallow soil of the Amazonian Basin which he would eventually sit and watch germinate until maturity. 

But after a certain point in time, his memories began to get hazy. 

There was the fall of Rome, of which he had no memories at all, though by what his brothers and sisters used to tell him, it was not really a fall as much as it was a slow trickle. 

(Castiel might have been a bit biased in that interpretation, though. He rather liked the bustling atmosphere of Constantinople during the Middle Ages, the way it bled into the peaceful, towering space of Hagia Sophia. Although he had not been there in person, per se, he had visited the minds of praying worshipers there enough times over the centuries to keenly know its towering arches and its clerestory windows, as if the features of the building were permanently engraved on the back of his eyelids. He could still feel the bite of tendrilled incense in his nostrils.)

Most of the Middle Ages were gone, however. So were all the events of the early sixteenth century. 

And then there was something big in Western Europe—France? He shut his eyes, trying to concentrate. All he could manage to bring to the front of his mind was a fragmented memory congealed together in gold leaf and blood. He remembered being angry about something. He could not recall what. 

There was a reason angels had not been allowed to explore Earth independently for thousands of years. _We’re not free-range anymore,_ Gabriel had once complained. That was right before Castiel’s brother had disappeared. 

Castiel had always considered himself a good soldier, until Dean. As far as Castiel was aware, he had been precise and quick in his craft, always making sure to complete whatever he needed to do without fault. But the others had seen through his shiny veneer, seen through the splintered memories and scrambled grace. If he focused hard enough, he could even remember hushed whispers amongst the ranks: _too sensitive, too thoughtful, too judging. Too much heart._

The other angels had been right the whole time. He was bad at following orders. 

Castiel let go of the leaf and watched it flit to the wooden slats of the porch. He touched the side of his mug—the coffee had long since cooled—and so he picked it up and headed back inside. 

Their house was small and wonderful. Castiel had insisted on painting the cabin dark green when they first arrived, which, in hindsight, made the entire thing blend in with its surroundings. But the white trim made it homey and crisp, and the multitude of windows let in plenty of natural light—something that the bunker had so sorely lacked. The two-story home stood in a clearing surrounded by forest, and a narrow driveway led out to the main road. If they followed that road, they would come upon the lake in just ten minutes, where they liked to spend summer days lounging and fishing and strolling. 

Their home was actually fairly close to town, but it was far enough to feel secluded. Castiel liked the privacy, liked the way he could imagine himself being in true Vermont wilderness. Dean liked how they didn’t have to worry about the neighbors being nosy. 

Most of all, they liked that it was theirs. 

The interior was a reflection of themselves. Potted plants hugged the window sills, mud-caked boots sat by the door, and a score of jackets and flannels hung on wall hooks in the small foyer. On the side table: a thrifted snuffbox with a small-but-growing postage stamp collection inside. Drilled into the wall: a collage of old license plates that had seen more of the United States than the average American would see in their lifetime. In a drawer: a hollowed-out motel bible with a pair of Enochian brass knuckles tucked safely inside. 

Bookshelves lined the main hall and the living room, and all of them were piled high with old paperbacks, DVDs, VHS tapes, CDs, and vinyl records. Just because Castiel already possessed the knowledge of most media produced in the past few millennia thanks to Metatron, there was a difference between _knowing_ and _experiencing_. And, sometimes, Castiel would come across a story that he did not know. That was most exciting of all. 

(Most of these new stories were actually from bizarre, rare movies that Dean made him watch, ones that Dean insisted were cult classics—but as far as Castiel was concerned, they probably did not have any cult following whatsoever. Probably for good reason.)

Castiel walked through the living room, past the secondhand couch and coffee table, and by the wall of photographs. 

The photographs were some of the first things Dean had put up when they moved in. He had argued that it was for safety, since each photograph covered up a painted sigil, but Castiel had known the real reason. 

There was Dean’s copy of the double portrait of him and Castiel wearing cowboy hats in Dodge City. Castiel had been forced to cut his own copy in half to summon a crossroads demon a few years ago on a case with Jack, but he had been warmed to find out that Dean had kept a printed version of it as well. It was creased down the middle, just as Castiel’s had been. They had kept this photograph in their respective wallets for years. They had never told the other.

Next to it was a grainy photo of Mary holding a grinning Dean when he was only a toddler, his hair so blonde it was almost platinum. Above that photograph was one with Dean, Sam, and Jack crowded together in the bunker in front of a crudely decorated birthday cake. 

Castiel’s favorite photo was one Sam had snapped without anyone’s knowledge, which he presented to them years later, printed and framed: Dean leaning against the back trunk of the Impala, Castiel standing next to him holding a map, both of their heads tucked close together. Dean had gotten lost—something which rarely happened and which he even more rarely admitted out loud. They were somewhere in the middle of Wyoming, and there was no cell service to speak of. Dean and Castiel had spent the better part of twenty minutes arguing about which way to go. Sam had mostly stayed out of their way, laughing up a storm. 

There were other photographs as well, but Castiel’s mind was already elsewhere. It was amusing to him the way the human mind worked. Very linearly, for starters. It was also quiet, and peaceful. For the first time in his long life, Castiel did not have the buzz and chatter of angel radio hammering dully around him. Even when Heaven had been reduced to only a few angels, and angel radio had been silent, there had still been that perpetual hum. 

It wasn’t there now. Castiel had thought he might miss it, or at least find the silence unsettling. 

He did not.

Shuffling over to the wide sink and pouring his cold coffee down the drain, he decided to make a fresh batch. He had ground some coffee beans last night—he usually did it at night, so the sound would not be too loud in the morning. Mostly for his own sake, since he normally slept in the latest. But sometimes he just could not sleep, no matter how much he willed his body to do so. This typically translated in him going to bed incredibly late and waking up even later, but sometimes he just stayed up the whole night. He always did his best to lie still and close his eyes, but it was difficult, falling asleep. 

It was easier with Dean.

Sometimes, however, Castiel _would_ fall asleep, only to snap awake during the dead of the night with a hushed gasp. Dreaming was something he hadn’t had to deal with since the last time he was human. Sometimes the dreams were pleasant. Most of the time they were not. 

It was different than how Dean would awaken after a nightmare: sweating, on guard, a strangled cry in the back of his throat. In contrast, Castiel usually awoke silently, the only indication of his troubles being tense muscles and heavy breathing through the nose. On those nights, after being reassured by the solid weight of Dean’s back against his chest, Castiel would extricate himself from bed and tread downstairs soundlessly. 

He had dreamt of the crypt last night. 

As Castiel went through the maneuvers of making coffee—setting the filter into place, dumping spoonfuls of coffee grounds on top, pouring water into the reservoir—he felt the ghost of cartilage and bone breaking under the force of his knuckles. The coffee began to stream into the glass carafe below, first a slow drip (—the drip of Dean’s blood onto cold, dusty flagstones—) and then a steady pour as the coffee brewed in full.

“That smells good,” a voice said from behind. 

Castiel turned, his attention drawn to the figure leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen. Dean stood with his head lazily tipped to the side, eyes half-closed and hair mussed from sleep. The robe he had stolen from the bunker hung over his black t-shirt and boxers, and his arms were crossed over his chest. The left corner of his lips formed into a smile.

“Morning, sunshine,” Dean drawled, pushing himself off the doorframe and padding across the hardwood floor until he was standing next to Castiel. Castiel gave him a quick peck on the corner of his mouth where his lips perked up.

Dean still tasted of spearmint toothpaste.

“Hello, Dean.” 

Castiel then turned back to the counter. Extending an arm above his head, he opened a cabinet and extracted a second cup. It was a corny, chipped mug with _Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy!_ scrawled across its surface in bold print. Dean had found it at some tourist-fodder gas station in Texas and had insisted on buying it. It had been well-loved over the years. 

Still waiting for the coffee to finish brewing, Dean wrapped himself around Castiel, his chest flush with Castiel’s back. His arms hugged Castiel’s torso, and Castiel set the mug down and let his hands drape over Dean’s. Dean then dropped his head to rest on Castiel’s shoulder. The soft hair that lay flat across the side of Dean’s head tickled his neck, and Castiel felt the reverberation in Dean’s throat as he hummed in contentment. Leaning into the touch, Castiel gently bumped his forehead against the other man’s temple.

“How long you been awake?” Dean asked. He did it with strained nonchalance, as he always did when he was concerned. 

Castiel thought of sitting out on the back porch in the dark, observing the constellations visible at this time of year until the sun rose. “Not too long,” he lied.

Dean lifted his head so his chin rested on his shoulder. His chest rose and fell steadily against Castiel’s back as he breathed in the scent of coffee. It was high end, something organic and fairtrade and imported. Dean always groused about the cost, saying that coffee was coffee whether it came from a Gas-N-Sip or a luxurious café, but Castiel insisted on it. If he was human and needed caffeine to function, it was at least going to taste decent. Besides, Castiel knew Dean liked it better anyway. Not that the man would ever admit it. 

“Wanna talk about it?” Dean asked. He was referring to the nightmare. That was the only reason Castiel ever got up before Dean. 

Dean presented it as a casual offer, ready to be dropped in an instant if Castiel got tense and didn’t want to delve deeper, but Castiel could tell from the low-pitched resonance of Dean’s voice that he meant it in earnest. 

By this time, the coffee was done, and Castiel unhooked the pot from the machine. “The night we were in the crypt,” is all Castiel said as he poured Dean’s mug full of coffee and his own cup three-fourths of the way up. The rest would be milk. 

Castiel could feel Dean stiffen behind him for a moment, and then Dean was squeezing his arms tighter around him. Dean’s steady, calloused hands latched onto the pilled fabric of Castiel’s sweater as he buried his nose in the crook of his neck. 

Setting the pot back in the coffee machine, Castiel took hold of Dean’s hands and pulled them away from his sides just far enough to allow himself to turn around so they were chest-to-chest. He tugged Dean securely against him and enveloped his arms around his neck. 

It had been years since that night in the crypt—nearly a decade—but that did not mean it hurt any less. Castiel thought about apologizing, again, but knew Dean would not allow it. 

This was hardly the first time Castiel had had this dream. In fact, they had talked about this particular one together before multiple times, as both of them had nightmares often. Things had gotten better over the past four years, the knowledge that they were safe slowly settling into their minds—but the past could only stay away for so long, and time could only smooth out so many wrinkles.

A tight, heavy ache bloomed in Castiel’s chest as he thought about the old days when he had been able to enter Dean’s dreams and make them peaceful. Dean didn’t deserve to be plagued by the things of his past. Neither of them did. 

But hurting Dean—whether in the crypt, or in a warehouse surrounded by hundreds of other identical corpses—was a dream that persisted all the same. 

It also wasn’t the first time Castiel had woken up with a jolting Dean next to him, the other man choking out something about _the Mark_ and _your angel blade_ and _I’m so sorry, fuck_ —and Castiel would just hold him close, Dean gripping him like he was going to lose him, both of them breathing in rhythm until Dean came off whatever ledge he had found himself on, until they had fallen asleep again. 

Not the first time. Probably not the last. 

Now, in the kitchen, Castiel was holding Dean again. They stood like that for a while, their coffee releasing wisps of steam behind Castiel, the small of his back pressed into the counter, his thumb rubbing circles along the curve of Dean’s neck at the base of his skull. Pretty soon, he felt Dean’s shoulders hitch up and his chest swell and collapse in quick succession—and Castiel pulled back immediately, thinking Dean was crying. 

Dean, evidently, was not. He had a shit-eating grin plastered across his face and was doing his best not to burst out laughing. 

Castiel furrowed his eyebrows. “What?” he asked gruffly. 

“N—nothing. Nothing,” Dean said. His face was turning red with the effort to hold his laughter inside.

Castiel hardly believed it was nothing. “What?” he asked again, and this time there was no room for argument. Castiel was not angry or upset. He was just confused.

Dean lifted a hand to reach the top of Castiel’s head, near the back. Plucking something from his hair, Dean brought it down so Castiel could see. 

Between Dean’s thumb and index finger was a leaf fragment. Red maple. 

This time, the laugh did escape Dean’s lips, and he twirled the leaf around in his fingers. “You have fun outside this morning?”

Castiel fought it, but his reflexes were not as strong as they used to be. His face broke into a begrudging smile. Swiping his hand in front of him, Castiel knocked Dean’s hand out of the way. “I did, actually.”

“Cute look,” Dean remarked, finally releasing Castiel from where he had him pinned against the counter. He headed over to the stove, under which the pots and pans were stored. Dean bent down and pulled out a frying pan. He deftly spun it around in his hand like he was brandishing a sword and then set it down on the stovetop with a heavy _clang_. 

Castiel could always count on Dean to let a painful conversation drop—a gesture that said _I don’t want to drive you away, so I’m not going to put you on the spot. But if you want to bring it up again, I’m here_. Castiel let out a breath he did not know he was holding. His shoulders untensed. 

They would talk about Castiel’s nightmare later, he decided. But not now. Now it was time for breakfast.

“If I knew I was gonna be living with the Jolly Green Giant,” Dean mused, dropping the leaf fragment onto the counter, “Maybe I would’ve paid more attention in high school biology. Tunes?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, and he was already walking from the kitchen to the living room to put a record on. 

This was how their Thursday mornings usually went. Dean didn’t have work down at the mechanic shop on Thursdays, and Castiel only worked part-time at the local Trader Joe’s. He mostly kept himself busy with his garden and his books, and during late summer, he rented out a stand at the farmers market in town and sold the honey he harvested from his beehives. 

Sometimes, there were too many fruits and vegetables from his garden—like tomatoes, which they both liked to eat but which also seemed to grow everywhere despite Castiel’s best efforts to rein them in, and snow peas, which Castiel enjoyed but Dean found repellent, giving them a plethora extra. Not wanting any of the food to go to waste, Castiel would set up his stand at random intervals throughout the year. He had actually made quite a name for himself over the past four years here. Sometimes the locals would ask him how he got his produce so delicious, especially since he had only started his garden so recently. And Castiel would always give a sheepish, vague answer, not wanting to tell them the truth: _I was there when they first spouted from the earth_. 

Castiel approached the shelf of records and began to flip through them. 

“Nothing from this century!” he heard Dean yell from the next room over. 

Castiel ran a finger across the record bindings, alphabetically ordered. Dean’s doing. “Is that the only requirement?” he called back. 

“Yup.” Dean popped the _P_ , and there was more banging around in the kitchen as Dean pulled out plates and utensils. Dean had many qualities, but silence was generally not one of them. 

Castiel smiled fondly to himself as he picked a record. He slipped the vinyl disk out of its cover and removed the plastic jacket. Flipping it over to the A-side, he set it on the record player, turned the player on, and set the needle down. 

“When I Kissed The Teacher” started streaming through the speakers. Castiel adjusted the volume so it could be heard from the kitchen. He had just stepped back over the kitchen threshold when Dean threw his head back in faux misery and groaned. 

“ABBA? Really?”

“You said nothing from the twenty-first century, Dean. I’m hardly at fault.”

Dean snorted. He was busy moving some eggs around a pan with a spatula and doing the same with a few strips of bacon on the neighboring burner. The toaster ticked away, the smell of warming bread filling up the kitchen. 

Castiel brought Dean’s coffee over to him, which he gladly accepted, and then Castiel opened the fridge to look for the milk for his own coffee. Stuck onto the face of the fridge with magnets were the grocery list, a blurry polaroid of Claire and Kaia that they had sent them two years ago, and a holiday card from Sam and Eileen from last winter. 

There was even a smattering of those magnetic word strips which Dean had come home with one afternoon—where Dean had picked them up, Castiel had no idea—but every couple of days they would be rearranged in a different order. Today, Castiel read, _SEE THE TRAIN WOW ! THEY ARE SO COOL BUT IT IS ME THAT RUNS LIFE YES_ , and then, cut up carefully since the original word pack did not consist of any profanity _, F U C K APPLE I AM FREE._

“Wanna take Baby out for a spin later?” Dean asked over the sound of sizzling and Swedish pop. 

Castiel took the milk out of the fridge and poured it into his coffee. The milk swirled and clouded until the dark liquid turned the color of caramel. Observing the pirouette of milk and coffee, Castiel considered Dean’s fridge message. Was it an assertion against big business? Or perhaps just a blanket statement about his general distaste for fruit . . .

“Yo, Cas. Baby—spin?”

Castiel decided it was the latter. And then: “Of course, Dean. I would love to go driving.”

He put the milk back in the fridge and settled himself down on a stool at their small island table. He had a good view of Dean’s back, swathed in the fabric of the Men of Letters’ robe. In spite of Dean’s ABBA aversion, Castiel caught the man’s head bobbing up and down as “When I Kissed The Teacher” faded out into “Dancing Queen.” Castiel smiled into his coffee as he took a long sip.

Mail was spread out on the island counter before him. It was mostly just bills and magazines addressed to _Dean Campbell_ or _Castiel Campbell_ , but on top of that mess lay Castiel’s logbook of magical artifacts, open. The last entry read: 

_Object: Armor of Green Knight_

_Status: Found?_

_Location: Gelligaer, Wales_

_Name: Brynna Dee_

_Field: Hunter_

_Contact: Eileen Leahy_

_Case: Unresolved_

After Sam and Eileen had decided to turn the bunker into an open safehouse, they had made it their mission to set up an organized system for handling cases—not as hunters, but as rehabilitators. Dean had been bewildered at first, not understanding. After all, the world of hunting was so ensconced in ideas of violence and elimination that an alternative approach seemed ludicrous. 

“But what about Garth?” Sam had countered over a plate of spaghetti during a tense argument in the bunker kitchen. Cas had watched as Dean tried to scramble together a reply. Before he could, Sam continued: “What about Benny?”

That one had kept Dean quiet. So, Sam set off on a mission. 

He was slowly bringing other hunters around to better understand a new way of looking at things, of cohabitation. 

There were research teams pouring over the bunker’s records looking for cures, like the ones Dean and Claire had undergone when they had first been turned; field teams that intercepted cases before other, shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later hunters could make it onto the scene; operations people who worked under the radar to divert the occasional blood bank; and most crucially, there were the networkers—the people on the inside making it all possible. 

The first networking group had been Garth and his extended family, getting into contact with as many other lycanthropes as they could, trying to convince them to “go green”, as Dean had put it.

Almost everyone had been wary at first. Not just the hunters, but the monsters as well. Castiel had heard plenty of Dean’s voiced anxieties at the beginning of this endeavor: _Sam’s going to get himself killed. This is gonna backfire like nobody’s business. It’s a lost cause. Hell, if we’re not hunting shit, what do we call ourselves?_ And, _Who’s even gonna trust us, anyway?_

Dean had a point, of course. No one in their right mind would trust a group of people who had, until four years ago, made it their life’s mission to kill them. And there were still plenty of hunters out there who were not on board with what Sam and Eileen were doing. The system was not perfect; far from it, in fact. But the two of them kept trying, and Castiel found it admirable. 

Despite all the violence in the world, humans still got up every morning, drank their coffee, and searched for compassion. Even when everything was telling them to give up and lie down. Especially then. 

It had taken him millions of years to learn, but Castiel finally understood that everyone was just trying to get by in their own beautiful, tangled way. 

He was no exception. 

Dean and Castiel, although officially retired on paper, still offered their help. Partly it was because there were still a number of divine relics that Castiel felt responsible for, partly it was because Castiel had always liked doing reconnaissance, and partly it was because Dean—despite his insistence that _he_ _really_ _was retired, goddamn it, so stop bothering him, Sam_ —still itched to hit the road and take on a case every now and again. 

Sam had called yesterday evening during Dean and Castiel’s weekly movie night while they were watching _Back to the Future III_. He had wanted to ask Castiel about the Green Knight’s armor, and although Castiel had never heard of it before, he put it into the logbook anyway.

Familiar hunters mostly called Dean’s cell directly, but sometimes one of their four landlines would ring, each labeled with a distinct piece of tape: _FBI_ , _CDC_ , _NPS_ , and—usually silent unless it was one of the old ladies from Castiel’s semi-monthly book club— _Home_. Less experienced hunters would usually call one of the landlines about a strange object or ask about lore. Occasionally, there was a request for backup. Dean and Castiel had been informed of a haunted rifle at some museum in Boston last month through a contact, and the two of them had driven down to handle it. 

Things had been mostly quiet since. 

Castiel thumbed the logbook page and took another long drink of coffee as he listened to Dean talk about the physics behind time travel.

“Would a flux capacitor be more efficient than the sling-shot the _USS Enterprise_ made around the Sun in _Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home_? Or would the latter just be more realistic, scientifically speaking?” 

And then the conversation slowly digressed into an argument about whether Marty McFly or Captain Kirk would win in a fight—an argument that Dean took both sides of, and about which Castiel had no valuable input to offer. 

That being said, his money was on Kirk.

They ate their breakfast at the island table, Dean at his usual corner seat next to Castiel. Their knees would bump, and they would chat, and the morning stretched onward until it finally reached an hour at which it was actually reasonable to be awake. They took turns getting up and picking new records when the ABBA one stopped and static filled the room. Dean selected a Creedence Clearwater Revival album, which they played one side of, and then Castiel picked a Kate Bush album, which he coaxed Dean into letting him play in its entirety. 

It was still playing when they finished eating and Castiel moved to the sink to wash the dishes. Dean cleaned the kitchen counter with a sponge, and when he was done, he snuck behind Castiel to plop the sponge down next to the sink. After only half-drying his hands on a towel, Dean reached up and tugged at the hair at the nape of Castiel’s neck. His hands were damp, and Castiel sucked in a surprised breath.

“You need a haircut,” Dean informed him.

Castiel looked up, first at Dean, and then at his own translucent reflection in the kitchen window above the sink. He couldn’t make out much of his hair from the warped image, but he didn’t doubt it. It had been at least two months since Dean had given him his last haircut. It was most likely due time for another. 

“Alright,” Castiel said. He finished cleaning up the last pan, then set it on the drying rack beside the sink. “Now?”

Dean grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. Without another word, Dean headed out of the kitchen toward the stairs that led up to the second floor, a space that was only half the size of the ground floor since the living room had tall ceilings that extended to the roof. The second floor consisted of a small walkway, from which two doors were visible: their bedroom door and the door to the upstairs bathroom. 

Castiel quickly dried his hands on the same towel Dean had used and then followed him, close enough to hear Dean say, “Gotta make my husband look socially acceptable when I show him off around town on our drive today, huh?”

Castiel hurried after him, trying not to blush. They weren’t legally married, of course—there were too many unresolved arrest warrants in Dean Winchester’s name to count, and they didn’t need to bring any more attention to themselves than necessary. Besides, Dean _was_ legally dead, and Jimmy Novak had a long-standing position as a missing person that they did not want to mess with. 

When Dean and Castiel had moved here four years ago, they decided to choose Mary’s maiden name, Campbell, just as Sam and Dean had once done when they were living together in Lebanon. Sam had already adopted Leahy, even though he and Eileen were only engaged. 

Just because they were known formally as Dean and Castiel Campbell, it didn’t stop Dean from calling Castiel “Mr. Winchester” over dinner or in bed. And sometimes, when he knew Dean was out of earshot, Castiel would whisper “Cas Winchester” to himself, reveling in the taste of it in his mouth—the proof that he had a family. A home.

 _Cas Winchester_. 

By the time Castiel made it up to the bathroom, Dean was already pulling out the tin box that held the clippers and clipper-guards, and then he kicked the bathroom rug out of the way so it would make sweeping up afterwards easier. The action revealed an expanse of slightly chipped black and white floor tile— _s_ _ubway tile_ , Castiel had once heard it called on a morning talk show. Then, Dean plugged the clippers into the wall outlet. He motioned for Castiel to come closer. 

“Relax, dude. I don’t bite.”

Definitely not rolling his eyes, Castiel huffed, and he moved closer to stand between Dean and the sink. Dean tapped him in between the shoulder blades. 

“Sweater, off.”

Castiel did as told, pulling the sweater over his head. It was thick and woolen, and well-worn at the elbows. It had been one of the first things he had officially bought for himself after giving up his grace. 

Castiel folded it gingerly and laid it on the corner of the sink next to their toothbrush holder. At the same time, Dean also removed his robe, and he threw it in a sweeping arc out the bathroom door so it caught on the walkway’s balustrade and draped unceremoniously over it. Beyond the railing, music streamed up from their living room down below. 

Now, Castiel stood only in his boxers. Laying across his collarbone was a silver chain on which a ring hung—Mary’s ring, now belonging to Castiel. The polished metal lay skin-warmed on his sternum, and it rose and fell as he breathed. Castiel rested his hands easily on the white porcelain surface of the sink. The smooth material was cool against his palms. 

Dean switched on the clippers and got to work. He ran his fingers gently through Castiel’s hair and let it stick up in the path of the clippers so each strand could be cut evenly. Castiel relaxed into Dean’s touch, allowing the buzz of the clippers to wash over him. Starting at the nape of Castiel’s neck, Dean muttered something about a tiny mullet and wiggled his eyebrows. After finishing up that section, he then switched out the shorter guard for a longer one. 

Castiel observed himself in the mirror. His body had aged rapidly over the past four years. It was as if, as an angel, his grace had stretched this body out like a rubber band, keeping it taut and young. But once the grace had left, this body had finally snapped back, catching up on lost years. 

Castiel finally looked the age Jimmy Novak would have been if he had never taken Castiel as a vessel. It reminded Castiel of how quickly Lily Sunder had grown old after she stopped using angel magic to keep herself young, but that had been an extreme case. 

Dean used his wrist to tilt Castiel’s head to the side to get a better angle. He slid the clippers behind Castiel’s right ear, trying to trim the hair there to a proper length. He had to do it a few times until he was satisfied. 

Dean’s hands were warm. It was not the same kind of warmth that emanated from his soul but rather the warmth of his body. His soul may have been palatial and intoxicating, but Castiel found this new heat to be just as sublime—thick and unhurried. Like maple syrup, or an August day. 

Of course, Dean’s warmth could be swift and blazing, too. But standing here in the bathroom, the morning sun streaming in through the window, Castiel’s myriad of ivy plants lining the sill. . . . That kind of incendiary heat wasn’t for mornings like this. This was a slow roll, something cherished and built up. Not the spark and detonation of a pistol. 

After finishing up behind the other ear—the most difficult part of the haircut now behind him—Dean tousled the hair at the crown of Castiel’s head, just careful enough to keep it parted in the correct place. Dean kept the right side shorter than the left, as Castiel liked it, then switched to scissors to handle the mess on the top. 

Dean was right; Castiel had needed a haircut. His hair had become flatter with the weight of hair growth over the past two months. 

Castiel let Dean move him around, either shifting his head or shoulders, but when Dean said, “Okay, look at me,” Castiel turned and planted himself face-to-face with Dean. 

Dean was resolutely focused on the crown of Castiel’s head. His eyes danced across Castiel’s hair, and his tongue poked slightly out of his mouth in concentration. 

Positioning both hands on either side of Castiel’s face, Dean inclined his head back and forth as if looking for something. Then his eyes brightened and he pursed his lips. He made a few snips every now and again, still at the same heightened level of focus. 

This close, Castiel could see the collection of freckles that brushed across Dean’s nose and cheeks. His stubble caught a few rays of sunlight here and there, and the parts of his irises that most closely surrounded his pupils looked golden against the brilliant green. There was a tiny scar on his left cheekbone, one that Castiel had kissed many times. He automatically reached up to touch it with his thumb. 

Dean faltered, his attention snapping back to Castiel’s eyes. Luckily the scissors had not been close to his head. A flush crept up Dean’s cheeks, and he looked down at the tile where tufts of Castiel’s hair lay. 

When Dean had rescued Castiel from the Empty four years ago and professed his feelings in return, it had taken a couple of months for Dean to get used to Castiel’s touch. Touching, in principle, was not the problem; they kissed, and they held each other, and they had sex. But occasionally, when Castiel was slow and gentle with him, Dean would freeze up like he didn’t know what to do with that kind of treatment. Like of all the partners he had ever had, it was a rare occurrence for them to touch him without expecting anything in return. 

It infuriated Castiel.

Dean quickly recovered, a self-conscious, lopsided smile forming on his face. “You should be more careful with a guy who has scissors next to your face.” 

“I trust you.” 

And Castiel meant it. He dragged his hand down Dean’s cheek and let it rest on his shoulder. 

Since Dean was still on a mission to cut his hair, he reached behind Castiel and grabbed a fine-toothed comb from the counter. Running it through the hair at Castiel’s temples—first the right, then the left—Dean brought the hair forward so he could trim it in a neat line, then brush it back. 

Dean stepped backwards to observe his work. Castiel still had his hand on Dean’s shoulder, but he had to extend his arm to reach Dean at this length. Dean’s back rested easily against the towel rack on the opposite wall. 

“Mmm,” Dean hummed. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and lifted his chin in achievement, apparently pleased. “Not too shabby, if I do say so myself.”

Finally letting go of Dean, Castiel turned around and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. The sides were significantly shorter, no longer unruly or hanging over the tops of his ears, and the low curls at the base of his neck were now gone. Castiel ran his hand over the top of his head, settling the rumpled mess back down and sweeping a few pieces of cut strands onto the floor. 

“You look good, Cas,” Dean said from behind. 

“Thank you. You’re excellent at this, you know.”

“Nah—I just got lots of practice. Who d’ya think always had to cut Sam’s mop of hair when we were little? Man—” Dean let out a chuckle— “there was this one time—Sammy must’ve been seven or eight, maybe—and we’d just started at this new school in Utah. It was our first week—” 

Castiel watched Dean through the mirror as he dove into the story, his hands gesticulating for emphasis while still holding the scissors and comb.

“—and Sammy, he came back to the motel in hysterics one afternoon, talking about how the next day was picture day, and I thought, well, shit! I can’t let my kid brother get his stupid photo taken with a goddamn _birdnest_ on his head, right? So Dad—he was out all night—but I went through his things and got his clippers. And I thought to myself, ‘I’ve seen him do this plenty of times. I can totally do it, too.’ So I start on Sammy’s hair—and God, Cas. It was so fucking bad.” 

Dean shook his head and let a laugh run through his entire body. A small smile formed across Castiel’s face.

“I didn’t know how to attach the clipper guards,” Dean confessed, grinning, “so I just—I just pulled up sections of Sam’s hair with my fingers and cut it slowly away, all careful. It was _so_ goddamn uneven, and it took forever. But Sammy—you should have heard him, Cas. When I walked him to school the next morning, he immediately ran up to all his friends—I mean, this kid had only been there, what? Three days? And he already had a group of weird little friends—and he started going on and on about how his big brother had cut his hair for him, how awesome his big brother was. I don’t even think the other kids noticed how shitty his hair looked.”

Dean put the scissors and comb back down on the counter and ran a hand over his beaming face. 

“I think I still have that photo,” Dean said to himself. “I definitely gotta show that to Eileen.”

Castiel liked seeing Dean like this: happy, the weight of the world not visibly on his shoulders. Ever since they had moved out of the bunker and retired, Castiel had noted an unmistakable improvement in Dean’s state of mind. It was reassuring. It made Castiel’s heart swell. 

Turning back around, Castiel put his hands on either side of Dean’s waist. “You’re a good big brother, Dean.”

Dean made a _pff_ sound and waved a hand. “Using an unsuspecting Sam for haircut practice? I mean, can’t argue with that.”

Castiel stretched his neck up until their faces were even and their noses were nearly touching. They breathed in the same air for a few silent moments. Castiel could feel Dean exhale across his cheek, warm and heavy. Their eyes locked. Castiel admired the way the sunlight streaming in through the bathroom window played off of Dean’s eyelashes. 

Reaching a hand up, Dean lightly brushed his index finger across the bridge of Castiel’s nose. 

“You had some hair there,” Dean said quietly.

They smiled at each other. 

Castiel leaned forward and pressed his lips against Dean’s. They were soft, though a bit chapped, and Castiel could feel his own scruff tug lightly against Dean’s skin. Castiel drew nearer, nudging his tongue against Dean’s lips until Dean opened for him. He tasted of coffee, and Castiel drank him in slowly, letting the slide of their mouths echo in time with the soft _shk shk shk_ of the static emanating from the record player down below. The album had long since come to an end; Castiel could not particularly bring himself to care. 

Dean inched his hands up Castiel’s bare chest and then slid them to his back, letting his palms settle flat against Castiel’s shoulder blades where the energy of his wings had once flowed. The pressure felt good. There seemed to be a perpetual ache there, like a sore muscle or a missing limb. Castiel had first felt that discomfort when Metatron had taken his grace years ago. It had been worse during those days, when everything had been so new to him, his lack of wings an everlasting reminder of his failings. 

But this time around, although it still felt strange—not being able to feel their magnetic pulse, the way they connected his mind to the vaulting chambers beneath the earth and the sharp peaks of mountains that sliced through the atmosphere—he did not miss them. Castiel had everything he needed right here in front of him. 

Slipping his hands beneath the hem of Dean’s threadbare Eagles tee, Castiel trailed his fingertips across his waist and hips. Dean shivered, and Castiel pressed in closer, bumping their foreheads together before dragging his mouth to the hinge of Dean’s cheek and peppering kisses along the side of his face. He moved to Dean’s neck when he heard Dean’s breath hitch. Castiel lightly ran his teeth along the underside of his jaw, near his ear. Dean’s hand came up to cradle the back of his head. 

“Do you wanna—” A pleasant sigh escaped Dean’s lips as Castiel sucked the delicate skin of his neck. “Do you wanna take a shower? You know,” he drawled, “all this hair on you . . .”

“Yes,” Castiel said hoarsely. He cupped Dean’s neck on the other side to get a better angle, and in response, Dean pushed his fingers through Castiel’s newly cut hair. They stood like that for a bit, neither of them ready to move yet. But soon, the tension became too much, and Castiel pivoted Dean sideways until Dean’s back faced the shower, Castiel’s mouth still on his neck. With one hand on his waist, Castiel walked him backwards.

Castiel stopped as the back of Dean’s calves hit the edge of the porcelain tub. Finally removing his mouth from the tender area on Dean’s neck, Castiel nudged his nose against his ear, and Dean’s chin fell forward so his mouth could chase after Castiel’s. They moved together at a languid pace, their lips meeting solidly between them as Castiel slipped his hand up to tug at the neck of Dean’s tee. 

“Shirt?” Castiel asked. His voice was breathless. Dean nodded while they kissed.

But instead of taking off his shirt, Dean reached blindly backwards until his hand found the shower handle. He turned it on, realized the water was only coming out of the diverter at the base of the tub, and then broke away from Castiel entirely. Dean grunted as he bent over to pull up the diverter valve, and then—a few seconds later—the shower head sputtered to life. 

Castiel took the opportunity of Dean’s back being turned to reach over and hitch up the hem of Dean’s shirt so his lower back was exposed. Dean swiveled back around in a lazy fashion, a cocky smile painted across his face. He shifted his weight onto one leg and then wrapped an arm around Castiel’s waist and pulled him flush against his side. 

“Can’t keep your hands off me, huh?”

The press of Dean’s hip against Castiel’s groin made his head swirl. “I wouldn’t want your t-shirt to get wet.”

“Of course.”

“Of course.”

Dean hummed, his breath velvety against Castiel’s cheek. Letting go of Castiel just long enough to finally pull his shirt over his head and toss it to the ground, Dean returned his hand to where it had previously sat low on Castiel’s back. He slipped the tips of his fingers underneath the waistband there. 

Dean’s hand felt good at the small of his back, like a grounding force. Castiel wanted to be that same thing for Dean. 

Running his knuckles across Dean’s stomach, Castiel reached the edge of his waistband where it sat low on his hips. Castiel let his hand rest there, his thumb moving in slow circles through the line of hair that disappeared under the elastic of his boxer briefs. Dean’s belly had grown softer over the past few years; Castiel pressed his hand closer. 

It was almost overwhelming: how beautiful Dean was, how luminous, how breathtaking. And how he was Castiel’s. 

Dean had chosen Castiel. 

They soon disentangled themselves to remove their underwear, and then Dean stepped into the tub with Castiel in tow. They pulled the curtain closed behind them and let the water splash over their bodies, both of them still clasped tightly together. It was near scalding, and Castiel quickly fumbled with the handle until the temperature cooled down a bit. 

After that, Castiel kissed Dean’s cheek gently. The other man blew out a breath sheepishly as if he was about to laugh, but Castiel drew him back into the moment. Holding the side of Dean’s head in one hand, Castiel placed his lips on Dean’s cheek again and held him there for a long time. 

He was so fond of this man.

The water beat down onto their shoulders in a steady stream, and Castiel let his whole body relax, the previous night’s dream dissipating from his mind and the cold air of his morning repose finally leaving his bones. He let his troubles wash down the drain.

In the places where his troubles had once been, Castiel adopted other things—the swathing presence of the steam, the patter of water at their feet, and the scent of Dean floating all around: warm sheets, old leather, and the faint trace of gasoline. These sensations undulated like honey inside of Castiel. He filled himself up with them until the core of his being felt rosy.

Finally pulling his lips away from Dean’s cheek, Castiel found Dean with his eyes closed. Rivulets of water clung to his eyelashes, and the man breathed in deeply, his chin slightly dipping toward his chest. Castiel ran his thumb over the apple of his cheek and brought his lips to Dean’s temple on the other side. There, a few gray hairs sprouted from his hairline. Castiel adored those hairs; they were the promise of Dean’s long life, of his aging. Castiel wanted to be by Dean’s side until they all turned white. 

Ghosting his lips downwards, he kissed the web of lines at the corner of Dean’s right eye, the ones that wrinkled when he smiled. Castiel moved on, kissing a cluster of freckles on his cheekbone, then on the side of his nose, and then on the bridge. 

A small breath slipped past Dean’s parted lips, and the man shut his eyes tighter. Their noses brushed together, and it was only in this small space between them that Castiel was able to tell that Dean was crying, the water dripping down his face as a false front. Just barely crying, and by way of just a few tears. But Castiel knew Dean. He knew the way his shoulders stiffened, the way the muscles of his jaw flexed, how he would shut his eyes, just like this, and pretend that the tears were not there. 

Castiel placed both hands on either side of Dean’s face and leaned their foreheads together. Dean let out a shuddering exhale like he was trying to force himself to keep his breathing regular, and Castiel pressed their bodies closer together until everything else seemed to disappear—just the two of them, sharing each other's air, and the grounding force of the water overhead. The rest of the world fell away. 

Dean removed his palms from Castiel’s back and placed them on top of Castiel’s hands where they lay on his face. 

“Cas—” His voice, a bit ragged along the edges, was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the steady thrum of water easily. He still refused to open his eyes. 

“It’s okay, Dean,” Castiel replied. 

Sometimes Dean got like this—usually late at night or early in the morning when the world was still asleep, when there was no one to perform for and no one to judge. In a place like this, standing in a tub whose curtain concealed them like a safety blanket. Here, Dean would allow Castiel to see a part of himself that he could not bring himself to show anyone else. 

Castiel knew it pained Dean to do so, being a man who felt shame so deeply within himself that the emotion might as well have been a tree whose roots were wrapped in a solid net around his ribs, his lungs, his heart. That tree had grown inside of Dean as a child, and its trunk had helped him keep upright throughout all the years and throughout all the pain. But there was no need for its support anymore. 

John Winchester had planted a seed within Dean long ago that Castiel would die removing. No matter how much time it required, Castiel would gently pick apart the rotten roots and unlace their woven walls from Dean’s chest until Dean was free. Until Dean could breathe. Until Castiel died of old age and became a pile of ash, if that is what it took. 

Castiel thought of Lot’s wife again. A bleached pillar of salt. A clean speck standing before fiery, frayed wreckage. The chipped grains of her body crumpling onto red sand, and the way she was carried off by the wind and erased. 

Castiel thought of Lot’s wife. And he knew that he, too, would have looked back. 

Dean’s forehead fell solidly onto Castiel’s shoulder, and a guttural sob escaped his mouth. Castiel enveloped Dean in his arms, leaving one hand on the back of Dean’s head to stroke his wet hair. Dean’s hands found Castiel’s waist and gripped his hips tightly, and his shoulders were shaking with effort to not give in. Tucking his head close to Dean’s cheek, Castiel positioned his mouth next to Dean’s ear.

“It’s okay, Dean,” he said again. Another hitching sob. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

“I don’t—” And Dean’s voice broke. He pressed his face further into Castiel’s collarbone. “I don’t mean to be like this. I—I’m sorry, this is—”

Castiel hushed him. “You don’t need to apologize. You never need to apologize.”

“But I—”

“No.”

They stood like that for a few minutes, Dean’s head on Castiel’s shoulder and Castiel holding him close. Dean cried—actually allowed himself to cry—and the sound was marginally smothered out by the din of the shower. After some time, the ragged breathing coming from Dean slowly evened out as they swayed under the spray of water. Dean’s hands came up to lay on Castiel’s chest, his right palm gently pressing against the anti-possession tattoo Castiel had gotten soon after becoming human. 

Still not looking up, Dean spoke. His voice was quiet. “I’m pretty messed up, huh?”

Castiel considered the hunched body in his arms. “No. You have trauma, but you’re not broken.”

“I feel kinda broken.” With this statement, Dean pulled away, but not to _get_ away. He simply swiped a hand over his face and cleared his throat. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he was looking at Castiel earnestly. 

“We all do, a bit,” Castiel admitted. “I’m beginning to realize that that’s just a part of the human experience.”

Dean let out a shaky laugh at that, and his smile flashed through the steam. His hand moved upwards from its placement on Castiel’s anti-possession tattoo to squeeze his shoulder. “You got that right,” Dean said. His face then sobered, and he opened his mouth again hesitantly. “Thank you. For giving me this.”

Castiel tilted his head a fraction to the side. “Giving you what?”

“You know . . .” Dean licked his lips nervously. “All this. A life. A chance. A new purpose. You didn’t have to, but you did. You gave up everything for me. And I—I don’t think I would’ve been able to navigate this alone. I really appreciate you.” Dean leveled his eyes with him. “I love you.”

“Dean . . .” Castiel’s voice trailed off as he searched for the right words. How could he even begin to explain how much Dean had given _him_? Dean had given him freedom. Dean had given him a home. Dean had given him the reassurance that not everything he did was a failure. And how could Castiel, in return, show this man how much he meant to him? How could he tell Dean that he would move worlds for him, that he would rip the fabric of the universe apart one thread at a time if it meant ensuring Dean Winchester’s happiness? 

So, Castiel reached over to the lip of the tub where a few bottles stood. He plucked one up—the shampoo—and squeezed a bit onto his hand before clicking the top shut and setting it back down. Rubbing the pearly substance between his palms for a few seconds, Castiel then placed his hands on top of Dean’s head and began to scrub. Dean’s hair was short, so it didn’t take long for the shampoo to turn bubbly. He continued to massage his fingers into Dean’s scalp long after his hair was clean. 

Dean closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. Castiel remembered the first time they had taken a shower together—it was late one night at the bunker, after a gruesome hunt they had driven seven hours to get back from, and Sam had gone to bed early. This was only a couple of weeks into the start of Castiel and Dean’s relationship; they could barely keep their hands off of each other back then. 

Twelve years of tension finally being acknowledged, Castiel supposed. 

Castiel had said something about needing to take a shower to get the blood and sweat off of his skin, and Dean had agreed profusely, a ravenous smile on his face. They had fucked beneath one of the showerheads in the Men of Letters’ spacious bathroom, and Castiel could still recall the image of Dean on his knees on the wet concrete floor: the ecstasy-drunk, dazed look in his eyes; the pink, swollen rotunda of his lips; the crazy, soaking wisps of hair that Castiel held onto like a lifeline. 

Afterward, Castiel had insisted on washing Dean up. It had been quite a change of pace from their escapade a few minutes before, Castiel being as slow and gentle with Dean then as he was being now. Dean had been flustered by the interaction, not expecting Castiel to do such a thing. Later that night, once both of them were warm and clean and lying in bed, Dean confessed that he had never done anything like that before. Not even with Lisa. 

Castiel had been confused at first. He figured Dean had had shower sex before—lots of times, for that matter. But Dean had corrected him. It was the tenderness that had caught Dean off-guard, the quiet devotion Castiel had offered him. _You’re teaching me how to be loved_ , Dean had remarked suddenly as they drifted off the sleep together, like the idea had just occurred to him. 

_Yes_ , Castiel had said simply. _Yes_. _And I hope you will let me_. 

Now, four years later, Castiel was still on that same mission. Things had gotten more natural over time as they became familiar with each other, not just as best friends, but as lovers. They learned to value each other properly and to forgive each other more easily. They learned to say when something was wrong instead of harboring it inside. They did their best to remember not to retreat into themselves or to push each other away. They put deliberate effort into each other, every day. 

Castiel liked that old human saying, _Rome wasn’t built in a day_. He remembered watching the ancient city being built long ago, and he could back up the accuracy of the proverb. In fact, Rome had never _stopped_ being built. It was always developing, always changing, and always adapting to the times. He might not remember its fall, but he remembered its beginning.

Castiel tipped Dean’s head backward and let the water wash away the soapsuds. When all the traces of shampoo were gone, Dean leaned into Castiel again. He took Castiel’s mouth in his own and kissed him deeply. Castiel melted into the touch. 

Dean smiled as he pulled his lips away. He looked more content than before, the heaviness of his crying having left him. “My turn,” he said. Then he shuffled over to grab the shampoo bottle himself, and he poured a dollop into his hands.

Dean’s fingers raked through Castiel’s hair, and he put his entire focus into the circular rhythm. Everything Dean did, he did to the fullest. Castiel let his head loosely follow the movement of his hands like a buoy floating on the surface of a mild sea. 

After a minute of this, Dean broke the silence as he directed Castiel under the stream of water to wash the shampoo away.

“I killed the mood, didn’t I,” he said.

It was not a question, and it was not a dig, either. Neither of them seemed to be too broken up about the shift in tone. They were happy enough in each other’s arms and in each other’s presence, and Castiel never wanted Dean to feel like he had to bottle up his emotions around him. 

Besides, they would find a way to have sex some other time today. All day together, and nothing specific to do. Castiel thought of the car ride he had promised Dean. They were, if nothing else, resourceful.

The water was warm against Castiel’s scalp, and he felt the suds trail down his spine and the back of his legs. They disappeared into the drain.

“I like this mood, too,” Castiel told him.

Dean smiled in return.

The rest of the shower was spent in pleasant quietude, excluding a murmured story told by Castiel about the invention of water pipes and, shortly after, a rather crude joke about pipes cracked by Dean. Castiel rolled his eyes and gently swatted him with a bottle of body wash. 

(Castiel had been training himself to do that recently—to occasionally mimic Dean’s way of showing casual, physical affection. A few years ago, Sam had texted Castiel an article on love languages. Written under the link was a message that read, _A little guide to humanity they didn’t teach you in angel school._ Castiel had been skeptical at first, and although he did not fully agree with the strict categories described in the article, it certainly made him look at Dean’s light shoves and shoulder squeezes in a new light.)

Castiel still wasn’t always sure he was doing the whole “human” thing correctly. But at least he didn’t have to do it alone this time. He had Dean as a guide—a fond, knowledgeable one at that. 

When the water began to turn cold, they washed the soap off of their bodies and twisted the shower handle until the water stopped. Reaching beyond the curtain, Dean grabbed a towel off of the rack. He draped it first over Castiel’s head and scrubbed messily over his hair to dry it, and then—before Castiel could grunt a cautionary _Dean_ —Dean tugged the towel down and let it drape over Castiel’s shoulders. The material was warm and soft against his skin.

Dean grinned innocently, and he reached a hand upwards to ruffle Castiel’s hair even more. 

“Nice haircut, Mr. Winchester. Your barber must be amazing.”

“He is certainly something,” Castiel replied, deadpan. 

A bright laugh escaped Dean’s lips, and he threw his head back, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that way Castiel liked so much. 

Dean grabbed another towel for himself and made a feeble attempt at drying his own hair before wrapping it around his waist. A small bruise was already forming on his neck where Castiel's mouth had been earlier.

When Dean pulled the curtain back to step out, the gush of air felt ice-cold on Castiel’s skin. Castiel hunched his shoulders and pulled the towel tighter around himself. Temperature shifts always felt extreme to him, so unused to having to regulate his own body temperature now. Seeing this, Dean dragged his hands up and down Castiel’s arms as if to warm him up. 

Transitioning one hand to Castiel’s back—the place between his shoulder blades that Dean knew ached—Dean led Castiel out of the bathroom, down the walkway that overlooked their living room, and into their bedroom. They would clean up the hair-cutting mess later.

The walls of the bedroom were a soft blue, and on the right side of the room spanned a wall of windows. It was lighter and airier than Dean’s sunless room back at the bunker. Castiel had made note of that fact when they had first toured this fixer-upper, and it had been part of the reason he had been so adamant about this house in particular. 

The bed was positioned in the middle with two nightstands on either side. The right one, which belonged to Castiel, had a few books on it and a small, porcelain angel statue that Dean had found at the local Goodwill and had thought was _so_ funny, Cas, come on. On Dean’s side, there was a worn, cracked copy of _Slaughterhouse-Five_ and two picture frames. One held an old photo of Mary carrying a tiny, bundled-up Sam with a young Dean making a silly face at her feet. The other was of Castiel and Jack sitting in the backseat of the Impala, Jack asleep on Castiel’s shoulder.

Under Dean’s pillow, of course, was his gun. Castiel had a gun in the drawer of his nightstand as well, but he had yet to touch it since being here. His angel blade stayed under the bed for easier accessibility, if it came to that. 

There had been a few unfriendly visitors over the years, but they were few and far between, and nothing the two of them couldn’t handle. The warding kept nearly everything out. 

The biggest nuisance they had been forced to deal with had taken place just two months after moving here when a demon had possessed one of Dean’s coworkers at the mechanic shop. The two of them had handled it with a call to Rowena, but not before wrecking a few cars beyond repair and making the manager quite irate in the process. But overall, the number of monster attacks had gone down significantly all over the globe. Castiel sent a silent prayer up to Jack. It was his doing.

 _This is kinda like how things used to be, before shit hit the fan,_ Dean had once said late one evening. Before monsters started forming ranks in preparation for the apocalypse, he meant. Before he picked up Sam from Stanford that one October night. Before Dean had been beaten down by the world—although his past self had certainly been beaten down enough for any one person to handle, even then. 

Before Castiel had met Dean. 

There, standing barefoot on the thick rug of their room with the sun of late morning on his face, Dean leaned forward and wrapped one arm around Castiel, around the towel that enveloped Castiel’s body. He pecked Castiel on the mouth, slapped his shoulder, and then headed off to the dresser to find clothes. 

Castiel watched as Dean let his towel drop to the floor as he retrieved a clean pair of underwear and slipped them on. As Dean began rifling through the drawer that held his t-shirts—which Castiel often commandeered for himself—Castiel let out a small, pleasant sigh. 

He was happy. He was so fiercely happy.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! title is from lorde's "400 lux"


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